


a·nat·o·my

by englishmajor226



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:11:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishmajor226/pseuds/englishmajor226
Summary: Pigments. Tremors. Miles. Nerves. A smutty Rogan one shot. Placed in no real universe I have created or probably will create. Just for fun.





	a·nat·o·my

**Author's Note:**

> Happy February, you beautiful people you! I thought a smutty Rogan one-shot was in order. Not my usual Logan, just as a heads up.

**a·nat·o·my**

Her eyes are a deep brown, and when they slide upward to meet his, she already knows his are a different color. _Pigment chemicals have their own reflection and absorptions, which ultimately affects the final spectrum._

He isn’t supposed to be here.

The mission isn’t going as planned. This is the third week undercover, and the bristling tension, the frustration, has its firm grip on the whole team, but especially Logan. Political intrigue isn’t his strong suit. Quiet whispers, bugs in ears. It just isn’t his way. She is steadily finding out it isn’t hers, either. Often, Rogue has found herself frequenting the bar six blocks south of the high rise hotel the team is staying in, much more at home with its wood paneling and dim lighting than the glitzy, polished marble of the hotel lobby and bar. Sometimes, she goes with Storm or Jean. Tonight, she’s by herself.

Or was.

The first time had been a mistake, she recites to herself. She was giddy, electric from the feeling of touch. They had thrown a party for her. There had been whiskey. But still, it had happened. His large hands over her bare skin, the sparks and jolts, the feeling his touch created.

Is she here, hoping he would be?  It’s hard to tell. Logan was often only inclined to drinking in his hotel room alone so far during this mission, most likely brooding, rehashing strategy. He knew as well as anybody that this mission was failing miserably. They had found themselves in Bern trying to take out a swarm of high ranking officials with known ties to human rights groups. The X-Men were trying to do so discreetly, with little fuss. So far, they hadn’t apprehended anybody. The targets had kept moving, shifting, and now Jean had just informed them all tonight that the targets were aware of the X-Men’s presence in Bern. Rogue assumes, sooner rather than later, they will pack it in, turn around and go home to reassess strategy.

He’s still in a suit, tie undone and hanging from around his neck where he had immediately pulled it loose after they had returned from the embassy. The first button is also undone, and the muscles in his chest are just barely visible, warm skin contrasting starkly with the crisp white of the button-down. He looks restless, edgy, uncomfortable, a storm brewing in the hazel pigment of his eyes.

“Hey kid,” he mutters, sidling up next to her on a barstool. He waves his finger, and, instantly, without further clarification, a double whiskey appears.

“That bad?” she asks, arching a brow toward him as he downs the drink quickly.

“About,” he mutters. Another wave of a finger. Another double.

“Sorry,” she murmurs through her own sip of wine. Suddenly, though, the Malbec doesn’t feel like enough.

“Quit apologizin’,” he practically orders her. Something in her belly tightens, as she watches his lips move. Another sip, a gulp really, of the wine, and now she’s the one trying to gesture for another.

He only smirks for a moment, before talking to the bartender, ordering something else in German. Suddenly, two double vodkas appear, and he slides one her way and one his.

“ _Prost,”_ he mutters, before knocking the whole thing back. She grins, before doing the same, and she doesn’t even cough she’s so intent on impressing him. Not one wince. Nothing.

“So why haven’t you shown your face lately?” she finally has the gall to ask. He’s already ordering another round for them, and she likes the way he does it. No hesitation. No consideration of her need or want for another. He already knows. It’s effortless.

“What? Hang out in this place with Cyke and company?” he mutters. Rogue only straightens a little at this, throwing him a look.

“So…I’m… ‘and company’?” she asks carefully. He looks over to her once more, and she can feel the way his eyes predatorily travel up her body, like...like maybe she’s something to be used.

“No,” he responds simply, before finally taking his eyes off her. “Just smelled you alone this time, darlin’” he finally adds, tipping the glass just slightly in her direction. The ice clinks.

“It’s not going well,” she finally murmurs to him.

“No, it’s not,” he mumbles.

“I think we should call it...the mission I mean,” she mutters, looking down at the wooden bar top, and to her mostly-finished glass.

“It ain’t over till it is,” he murmurs, setting his own empty glass down on the bar roughly.

“Logan…” she murmurs before she knows better not to, the liquor making kaleidoscope patterns in her already-fractured mind.

“Yeah kid?” he asks simply, turning to her once more.

“Why are you here?” she barely whispers, before looking down at her hands once more. Recently, very recently, she had taken off the gloves and kept them off, even though it had been months since she gained control of her powers. _Old habits die hard._  He watches her watch her hands, and something that sounds like a low growl rumbles from inside his chest.

The light is low and heavy, and when she looks up to him again, it clicks. Her breath hitches as all the pieces fall into place, and she understands on some base, animalistic level that whatever he asks for tonight, she’ll comply, mistake or not. Whatever he wants, she’ll do. She doesn’t want to think about everything that has gone wrong so far. She just wants him. As simple as that. She must give herself away somehow, because then he’s standing, slinking to the back of her chair, coming up to bend over her, slightly smelling the nape of her neck before taking a breath in. She knows it’s been weeks since the first time, and she doesn’t know _what it all means._ But she knows she wants it to happen again.

 _Sound waves enter the ear canal and make the eardrum vibrate._ Vibrations move through her constantly as he begins murmuring. It’s something just beyond her comprehension, some sort of animalistic dialect, but she knows still it’s direction. Intentional, and the tremors make something deep within her gut respond.  He wants her in every way, every fucking way he can have her, and he wants her right now. Not later. Not then. _Now. Right fucking now._

“How about we get out of here?” he whispers through another rasp, placing a hundred Swiss franc note down on the table to pay for their drinks.

“You sure?” she manages to ask, even as she is standing, even as she knows the answer already. He doesn’t respond, but only deeply growls, taking her coat off the back of her chair and placing it firmly around her shoulders.

“Six blocks, kid. You think you can make it?” he asks gruffly.

“Yeah,” she says, even as her head swims and her knees wobble from the wine.

 _Our legs carry us an average of 110,000 miles in our lifetime_ . Flurries lazily fall, flecking the night sky as his grip around her hand tightens. She laughs a little as they run in front of traffic, horns blaring. Her heels click on the icy, wet cobblestone, and her blood is pumping. _Again. They’re doing this again._

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” she mutters.

“It’s Switzerland in winter,” he says simply.

Her grip on his hand only tightens.

 _The sense of touch in your hand is supplied by two main nerves. One of them is your median or carpal tunnel nerve that passes under your carpal tunnel ligament and gives feeling to most of your hand._ Her hands are pale and fingers skinny, although, even at thirty, they are flecked with tiny, nascent age spots. His hands are larger, rougher somehow, and she likes the weight of them. She likes them because they are so different.

The elevator ride back to their block of rooms is torture. That slow ascent, upward, skipping past the unnamed thirteenth floor. He’s superstitious, sometimes. She likes that about him, that secret she now knows.  He can’t keep his hands off her anyway, running up her sides underneath her coat but over the black lace of her shirt, settling firmly on her rib cage. She’s skinny, but there’s nothing thin about her bones. They’re thick and needy. They show up even when they shouldn’t. She feels satisfied, full in a way she hasn’t in a while, even though she longs for something else. Something maybe she can’t have. But she’ll take what she can get. _She made a fucking decision, goddamnit. Didn’t she?_

 _You know, without lips_ _we wouldn't be able to make the sound of the letter "P" and we wouldn't be able to kiss the people we love._ They stumble out of the elevator, and he lets out a low rumble, turning her and pinning her against the fucking flowers in the wallpaper in the hallway. He uses his weight, his full weight, to press himself against her. She marvels at all that strength, _how strong a man really is when he lets himself be,_ and then she realizes: _tonight isn’t about her._  She should have known. Slowly, the slight tendril of romance she felt from earlier begins unraveling as he’s fumbling with his key card, pushing her into the darkened space of the hotel room. Her own room is two doors down. It remains undisturbed.

Then he’s up her skirt in the dark, in the shades of moonlight, and he’s got two thick fingers inside her in the middle of the fucking room. She moans, and then she hears a sharp _tsk._ “Talk,” he mutters and she only mumbles something incoherent in response. “No. _Talk,”_ he demands, shoving another finger inside her.

“Full,” she mutters, barely able to remember the words in English.

“How full?”

“Not _enough,”_ she growls, and he adds another finger, and she writhes.

 _A dry tongue can't taste a thing, so saliva helps the tongue by keeping it wet_. He runs it up her neck, and she wants him to bite down, but he won’t. Not yet. He owns her now, and he decides when and if she’ll get to feel any pleasure. And then his fingers are gone and he raspily snarls at her.

“Strip.”  

She cocks an eyebrow at him, a small smile on her face, and he grumbles again.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, and fucking strip.”

She does as he says. Slowly the top comes off, revealing a black bra underneath because she only wears black, and he knows this, and she knows he likes it.

“On your knees,” he’s now barely able to murmur through a low snarl.

 _The throat is a ring-like muscular tube that acts as the passageway for air, food and liquid._ She opens up her mouth, lets her throat relax as she takes his entire length between her lips. The hardwood floor of the hotel room entryway is rough on her bare knees, but she doesn't care. They’re not their bodies anyway. She’s something floating, something distant, and she can’t come back from whatever this is.

Still, she knows it’s not enough. _It’s not enough._  She wants…she wants something else. Something he can’t provide. Something he doesn’t want to--can’t-- give. She wants it so bad she can’t think straight. Something she wants in the very marrow of her bones. She wants it to radiate, seep through every fiber, every neuron. She wants to practically regret the discomfort, the pain in the morning, regret the images and the feelings. She wants to regret everything because she wants to feel something more than she should, something more than how it’s all _supposed to be._

 _There are eight small carpal bones in the wrist that have two rows of four bones each_. He holds them above her body after he throws her down on the bed, and he growls as he enters her roughly, without restraint, and she better be wet enough because he doesn’t fucking care. She doesn’t either. He fucks her crudely, harder than in the past, but not as hard as she wants. He knows he needs to last. She needs more than a few minutes of this. She wants him to come more than once too. She wants it all over her, in the nooks and crannies, the fucking crevices of who she is.

“Words,” he mutters through another thrust.

“Tight,” is all she can say.

“More.” His voice is raspy and raw.

“I’m so fucking full, I can’t stand it,” she barely breathes.  

“Gonna pull out. Gonna come on you,” he murmurs, and she can only purr back. _Her skin protects her from microbes and the elements, helps regulate body temperature, and permits the sensations of touch, heat, and cold,_ but right now, it only stings, as sensitive as it is as he paints her skin with his hot, white seed and he’s shaking against her, and she moans, because she hasn’t come yet and she wants to and he doesn’t fucking care. As he slowly catches his breath, she thinks he’s going to move down the couch, settle between her legs, _so she can finally feel relief,_ but he doesn’t. He doesn’t touch her. And something about that feels good too, being wanted so desperately and suddenly not being enough.

“Baby,” she breathes, reaching for him.

“It’s over kid,” he says blankly. She blinks once at him, frowning deeply.

He sighs, running a hand over his face. “This is what you wanted, yeah?”

“No,” she says simply, moving to stand, lingering now over his still-prone form.

He simply looks at her, eyes slowly crawling up her now-naked body, and he waits. Waits for her to elaborate. Waits for a response.

She doesn’t give it to him.

“What do you think you’re startin’?” he finally asks, and this time she throws him a cheeky grin.

“Something more,” she murmurs. There’s a glimmer in his eye, and then he offers her wide smirk.

“That so?” he asks evenly, even as his hands reach for her again.

She doesn’t respond, but only smiles back.   

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, for your lovely feedback and support. 
> 
> Current status on other stories:
> 
> Twelve: The last five chapters are in full draft form and are currently being beta'd by the beautiful @bluefrogsbestfrogs. Once I go back and edit them, I plan on throwing up a chapter a day until it's complete. That will be a fun week!
> 
> Engines: Chapter 5 is almost there. Hoping to have Twelve posted before I really get going with Engines. Hoping to get back in the groove of a chapter a week with that one.


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